


A High Walled Garden For Your Heart

by carolyncaves



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blind Ignis Scientia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Getting Together, Healing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Older!Ignoct, POV Ignis Scientia, Past Domestic Violence, Past Violence, Scar Worship, a few minor cameos, don't let the tags scare you too much haha, gardener!Ignis, this was written by me so in the end it's all mostly gentle and nice, wealthy recluse!Noct
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 08:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17096888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolyncaves/pseuds/carolyncaves
Summary: Ignis is a gardener. It’s a profession he’s good at and which he enjoys. Ignis is also blind, and for some reason this seems to bother his clients.Noctis Lucis Caelum is a wealthy and reclusive man. In the aftermath of a nearly-successful attempt on his life two years ago, he gave away over a billion dollars of personal assets and retired from public life.





	A High Walled Garden For Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I always try to be mindful when I write, but I’m not most of the things the characters in this fic are. If I’m way out of line on something, please let me know.
> 
> (“Things I am not” include but are not limited to: blind, a survivor of intimate partner violence, and someone who knows literally anything about gardening.)

Ignis is a gardener. It’s a profession he’s good at and which he enjoys. Ignis is also blind, and for some reason this seems to bother his clients.

Sometimes he wonders if they believe he couldn’t possibly know if a plant is beautiful and well if he can’t see it – which couldn’t be further from the truth. He sees little light and less color, but along with touch and smell and knowledge it’s more than enough for him to ensure his charges flourish.

Sometimes he wonders if the scars on his face ruin their view of their gardens. That may well be true. Ignis hasn’t seen the scars himself, of course, but they feel prominent to his fingers. He can’t do anything about them, so he tries not to dwell on that.

Either way, it’s not a terrible impediment. Ignis works for a gardening company and his supervisor knows what he can do. Ignis works behind the scenes in their proprietary nursery and in less-prominent roles on large contracts where he won’t have to interact with the clients directly. And if he’s honest, that arrangement usually suits him just as well as it suits them.

Until his supervisor taps him on the shoulder one morning and says she has a special assignment for Ignis. An unusual client, who she admits has already fired two gardeners she’s tried to assign to his contract. But who demands discretion and results, and is willing to pay for them.

Ignis’ professional pride is piqued even before he hears the name.

-

Noctis Lucis Caelum is a wealthy and reclusive man. He was the scion of a prominent business family and he inherited those reigns at a young age. In the aftermath of a nearly-successful attempt on his life two years ago, he donated over a billion dollars of personal assets to a foundation run independently in his name and retired from public life.

That is the main thrust of what Ignis knows about that name, the details confirmed with a cursory internet search, and that is what Ignis is thinking about as he navigates the stairs up to the front door of the relatively modest estate of his new client.

Mr. Caelum has people who maintain the grounds without ever speaking to him, or so his supervisor reports. Ignis can smell the cut grass to prove it. Ignis’ task is to manage Mr. Caelum’s private garden without disturbing his peace.

Ignis is under the impression his success or failure will depend more on Mr. Caelum himself than anything about the garden, which means the next few moments will be telling. Ignis knocks on the door. The sound is dull and unsatisfying, as though the wood were thick and heavy and intended to provide a substantial barrier between the manor’s inhabitant and the outside world.

Perhaps Ignis is reading into things too much. Perhaps it’s just expensive.

The door opens.

Ignis’ internet sources were conflicted on whether or not Mr. Caelum was bound to a wheelchair as a result of his injuries, but Ignis believes the person at the door is standing. It’s in the breath, the subtle sounds of movement, the sensation of occupied space. There’s the creak of metal, though – perhaps a cane or a brace.

Mr. Caelum doesn’t break the silence, so Ignis doesn’t either.

“Oh, you’re blind,” Mr. Caelum says. His voice is low and raspy from disuse, and he pauses to clear his throat. “Sorry. I’m a man of few words. These days, anyway. But I don’t think my text-display app will help you much.”

Ignis’ supervisor has given him to a client who prefers not to talk aloud. How uncharacteristically ridiculous of her. “Perhaps it supports text-to-speech,” Ignis suggests, as evenly as he can.

“It’s fine,” Mr. Caelum says.

“If you’re certain,” Ignis says. “I can call my supervisor and have her send over a different gardener if you’d be more comfortable.”

“It’s really fine. I’m, ahem. It’s all right.”

Ignis nods. Then he waits. Mr. Caelum doesn’t invite him inside.

“Looks like a nasty accident,” Mr. Caelum says.

Ah, yes. His disfigurement. “Not an accident,” Ignis replies. Then, when the silence stretches: “It was a nasty ex-boyfriend, actually.”

A pause. “I’m sorry,” Mr. Caelum says quietly.

“If I may be so bold,” Ignis says. “Likewise.”

The pause is longer this time, and Ignis begins to wonder if he’s gotten himself fired before even getting in the door. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Mr. Caelum says. “But can you actually garden?”

“I’d make a poor gardener if I couldn’t,” Ignis replies, trying not to get his hackles up.

Mr. Caelum huffs, the faintest breath of laughter. “That’s true. I guess I’ve run out of excuses to keep you on the porch.”

Ignis senses him step back, so Ignis steps forward into the gloom of the manor.

The house is still. Settled, like dust. Mr. Caelum is the only movement – that creak is definitely a brace, for his leg and perhaps also for his back – and Ignis follows him through static rooms. ~~~~

“Shall I assume you have basic equipment here on site?” Ignis asks. “Carts, wheelbarrows, hoses …?”

“They might be old,” Mr. Caelum says. “Order whatever you need.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Caelum stops. “I’m not sir anymore,” he says, soft and taut and raw. “I’d prefer it if you’d call me Noct.”

“Of course,” Ignis says. “As you please, Noct.”

Mr. Caelum hesitates, as though waiting for some other shoe to drop. When it doesn’t, he says, “The garden’s right through here.”

The private garden in question is two acres of space behind the house, half in full sunlight and half in the shade of mature trees. It’s in such a frightful state Ignis doesn’t trust himself to speak as he walks the overgrown paths and examines the beds full of wild weeds and smothered, wilted plants.

“You must know what you’re doing,” Mr. Caelum’s quiet voice comes. “You can tell it looks like shit.”

“Only for now,” Ignis says. “What is your vision for this space? Do you have specific plants in mind, a theme or concept?” Wealthy clients often had extravagant ideas – exotic specimens that weren’t truly suited to the climate, fanciful architectural and lighting elements that made showstopping entertainment spaces and somewhat lifeless gardens. Perhaps that was the sticking point with the previous gardeners.

“No. Whatever you want. I don’t know anything about plants or gardens. I just want you to … make it feel nice again.”

Ignis thinks he and Mr. Caelum are going to get along just fine.

-

The garden blooms quickly. Part of it, anyway.

This is Ignis’ strategy, when working on a space that has truly gone to seed. He begins with an intense intervention on a small area. That way, the client has something to enjoy while the rest of the garden develops (and doesn’t grow frustrated at a lack of visible results).

Ignis chooses a small corner of the wooded area for this purpose, and in addition to some showy annuals, path gravel, and a Japanese maple or two, he puts a long stone bench on Mr. Caelum’s tab. In less than a week, Ignis assembles the essential rudiments of a prayer garden.

Mr. Caelum “hmm”s noncommittally when Ignis speaks that label aloud, which he does on the fourth day when Mr. Caelum finally breaks his silent vigil and asks him what the bench is for.

“Don’t know if I do much praying,” Mr. Caelum says.

“One doesn’t have to pray to the Gods,” Ignis says. “It could be a peaceful environment for meditation. Even simply sitting among the trees can be healing. Communion with nature is good for the soul. That is, ultimately, the point of any garden, even if it goes unstated and unrecognized.”

Mr. Caelum doesn’t say anything for a long time after that. Ignis has yet to determine if this means he’s displeased, or if he is simply – as he said – a man of few words.

“Why did you fire the other gardeners?” Ignis eventually asks. He figures answering a question has earned him the right to ask one.

“They talked at all the wrong times,” Mr. Caelum replies. “And at the worst times, they said nothing at all.”

“I see,” Ignis says. “I hope if I ever get that distinction wrong, you’ll let me know.”

Mr. Caelum crunches across the gravel and lowers himself onto the bench with a breathless groan and the creak of his brace. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

-

After the prayer garden goes over well and it appears Ignis is not going to be dismissed within the week, he begins the task of reclaiming a larger swath of territory. Each choked, gnarled specimen tree and leggy, overgrown hydrangea he encounters further confirms a theory: this garden was once cared for by a knowledgeable hand. Not Mr. Caelum’s, certainly – he couldn’t tell a zinnia from a xylophone.

Ignis is holding a broken statuette he’s unearthed and trying to decide if he’s going to stoop so low as to look up the property’s tax records to determine when it came into the Caelum family’s possession when he hears Mr. Caelum let himself out the back door of the manor.

Mr. Caelum checks in on Ignis frequently in the garden – visits that strike Ignis as curious instead of supervisory. Generally, Ignis volunteers a brief description of what he’s doing and then lets his client enjoy his own garden, untamed though it may be, in peace. Sometimes Mr. Caelum wanders in Ignis’ general vicinity. Sometimes he stands nearby, giving Ignis the impression he’s watching him. Sometimes they even exchange conversation.

This time Ignis isn’t certain what to say. He battles the brief but powerful impulse to hide the statuette back in the dirt and feign ignorance.

“Is this Shiva?” he asks instead, holding it up for examination.

Mr. Caelum’s approach is slow. He stops right beside Ignis where he’s knelt on the ground. The statuette’s weight lifts from his hands.

“You’ve got good fingers,” Mr. Caelum says.

“I’m simply familiar with the Gods’ traditional depictions,” Ignis replies. He says no more.

Mr. Caelum doesn’t beat around the bush. “Aren’t you going to ask me whose garden this is?”

“It’s your garden, Mr. Caelum,” Ignis replies. He curses himself. “Noct, rather. Apologies.”

“You know what I mean,” Mr. Caelum says, letting Ignis’ slip of the tongue go by.

Ignis does know what he means. “I already asked you a question,” he says. “I figured it was your turn.”

There’s a long, unknowable silence. Mr. Caelum chuckles. “’Is this Shiva?’ doesn’t count. You were just asking me to look. I’m not going to hold that one against you.”

“That’s very gracious,” Ignis replies. “But since I was certain it was Shiva and I asked the question only as a means of broaching the topic indirectly, I recommend you reconsider.”

That provokes Mr. Caelum to laugh outright, which is a low melodious sound that sets every nerve in Ignis’ body alight. “So that’s how it is.”

“Indeed.”

Mr. Caelum sighs. The mirth trickles from the atmosphere. “Guess I’ll have to just tell you,” he says, subdued.

“If you want me to know.”

“I do.” Mr. Caelum sounds startled even at himself. “I do. It was my mother’s.”

“I see.”

“She did a lot of the work herself. This was her summer home. I played out here as a kid. When she got sick, it got out of hand.”

Ignis waits until he’s sure Mr. Caelum is done. “If there’s anything you remember, any specific element you want to incorporate, just let me know.”

“No. I mean, I will. But you’re doing fine. I’m not trying to recreate the way it was.”

Ignis knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t restrain himself. “You’re trying to turn over a new leaf.”

A gaping pause. Then Mr. Caelum is spluttering with laughter. “No,” he begs.

“I’m afraid _sow_.”

“You, you …” Mr. Caelum clears his throat. “You did not just _grow_ there,” and Ignis can’t keep himself from smiling.

-

Mr. Caelum’s check-ins grow more frequent, and their conversations grow longer and gradually more personal. It’s a pattern Ignis is accustomed to resisting, one that for some reason he doesn’t resist now.

He supposes he deserves it when Mr. Caelum eventually asks, “Do you have a better boyfriend now? Or girlfriend. Or … you know.”

“I don’t,” Ignis says, using the surge of some unidentifiable emotion to pull a particularly stubborn weed from the earth. “I haven’t seen anyone since. Literally or figuratively, as it were.”

“Oh,” Mr. Caelum says. “Was it recent?”

Does it look recent? Ignis has never been comfortable asking anyone to describe it. “It was twelve years ago.”

“You were young.”

“Twenty-two,” Ignis replies.

Mr. Caelum hums neutrally. Neither callous nor saccharinely sympathetic. Just an acknowledgement that Ignis received his damage very early in life.

“What about yourself?” Ignis asks, because he believes he’s earned several questions over the course of this exchange. “Was there ever anyone serious, before?”

Mr. Caelum gives a self-deprecatory snort. “Before I fell apart?”

“Before you were punished harshly for trusting the world.” There’s no need for Ignis to speak more plainly than that. Mr. Caelum’s trauma is fresher than his own, and Ignis already knows the story. It’s public knowledge, a series of facts that appears at the top of every news article and internet encyclopedia entry bearing Mr. Caelum’s name.

Two years ago, Mr. Caelum was attacked in the lobby of his company’s headquarters. Stabbed repeatedly by a man who police eventually discovered had been hired by Mr. Caelum’s board of directors to kill him. Savaged so badly it was a miracle he survived. Spent eleven weeks clinging to life in intensive care. Hasn’t appeared publicly since.

“I was a bajillionaire,” Mr. Caelum answers. “There were plenty of women. It was never serious.”

Ignis nods and pulls another difficult weed.

“I’m attracted to men,” Mr. Caelum says. “Too. But I never, I didn’t. Know how.”

“I understand,” Ignis says neutrally. Neither judgmental nor pitying. Just an acknowledgement.

The conversation ends there, though Mr. Caelum stays and watches Ignis pull weeds for quite a while afterward.

-

Three days later Mr. Caelum emerges from the manor at eleven-thirty and says, “Do you want to come in for some lunch?”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Ignis says, “But can you cook?”

Mr. Caelum chuckles. “I guess turnabout’s fair play. Not really, but I can make a sandwich.”

That sounds more than acceptable, so Ignis removes his gloves and rises to his feet.

The kitchen is a light echoing space, all tile and windows. Obviously renovated in the last century, considering the manor was built when the kitchen would have been the domain of the owner’s household staff. A staff Mr. Caelum doesn’t have – excluding Ignis himself, he supposes.

“If you don’t cook, how do you eat? If you’ll forgive me for hoping you don’t survive off sandwiches.”

“Frozen pre-mades, delivered every two weeks,” Mr. Caelum answers, and there’s a twist to his voice that resembles shame. “They leave them outside the kitchen door. I can heat one of those up for you instead, if you want. They’re pretty nice.”

With the resources Mr. Caelum has at his disposal, Ignis imagines they would be. “I’ll have the sandwich, if it’s all the same.”

“Great.” Mr. Caelum shows Ignis to the table and then creaks around the kitchen, rummaging through drawers and the refrigerator, rustling bread. The sandwich he serves Ignis is good, as hospitable as the gentle conversation he provides while Ignis eats it.

When Ignis is finished and has no choice but to get up and return to work, he’s almost disappointed. But he knows his duty. “Thank you for a pleasant lunch, sir.” Ignis winces. “Or rather, thank you, Noct. I do apologize.”

Ignis is learning to read Mr. Caelum’s silences, and the one he has to endure after that mistake is devastating. “Look. You can call me ‘sir’ if you want, or Mr. Caelum. Whatever. I’m not trying to torture you.”

“It’s hardly torture for me to call you what you wish to be called,” Ignis said. “I deeply apologize for my failure to do so. Please know, it’s reflexive merely because you’re my client. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

Mr. Caelum’s gives a harsh sigh. “Yeah, okay. You’re right. I’m just your client.”

Ignis feels the conversation unravelling. “You are my client, but if you prefer me to be informal, of course I’ll …”

“No,” Mr. Caelum says. “I don’t prefer anything. Call me whatever you want to call me.”

Ignis stands marooned in the gulf between the kitchen table and the door. This isn’t the first time he’s thought he might be getting himself fired, but it is the first time he’s been worried at the prospect. “You’re my client, but we’re … friendly. Friends, even. I want to call you Noct, or Noctis. As long as you’re still comfortable with my doing so.”

Mr. Caelum … _Noctis_ is quiet for a very long time. “Yeah. I am. I want that.”

-

The next morning, Ignis gets a text from his supervisor informing him he’s been fired from the Caelum contract. _You lasted five times longer than the other two_ , she writes. _I thought you were in. Good work, though. Appreciate the effort. There’s just no pleasing some people._

Ignis is professionally disappointed. He is certainly not crushed.

He spends the morning working in the nursery. Just before lunch, his supervisor calls. “He’s fired the girl I sent over this morning. He wants you back. But look, it’s obvious he’s a serious problem client. If you don’t want to go, I’ll void the contract.”

“I’ll go,” Ignis says immediately.

Aranea sighs. “Well, I’m not about to turn my nose up at the invoices I get to write him. But Ignis, if dealing with him is torture, I want you to let me know.”

“It’s hardly torture,” Ignis replies, and he has to smother the urge to either laugh or cry.

-

When Ignis arrives at the manor an hour later, Noctis doesn’t answer the door. Ignis wonders if he’s been re-fired already. Then his hand brushes against a slip of paper taped to the doorknob.

It’s weighted – there’s a key attached. Ignis is about to take a photograph of the paper and send it to Aranea in case there’s a note when his fingers find a short row of bumps.

Braille, written clumsily with a slate and stylus.

_SORRY_

Ignis stands on the porch for over ten minutes, until the sweet scorched feeling in his throat recedes. Then he lets himself inside.

-

Ignis doesn’t see Noctis – metaphorically, of course – for the next several days.

At the end of that first, calamitous day, Ignis writes a reply on the note in his undoubtedly-uneven handwriting: ‘I apologize for whatever I did to upset you’. It’s deferent in a way he once swore he would never be (again), but Noctis isn’t a rattlesnake or a hungry tiger, a predator he’s trying to appease. Noctis is a butterfly: something he can harm just by touching it too harshly. Something harmless. Something that has been harmed, crippled, crumpled before. Ignis leaves the note and the key on the plant stand inside the door, and he locks the knob behind him on his way out.

The next morning the key is left outside for him once more, along with another note. The words are spaced irregularly, written by someone who kept removing the slate and then replacing it to write more but who had little practice doing so. _KEEP IT_ , and then _YOU DIDN’T DO ANYTHING_ , and then _I’M A FOOL_.

That evening Ignis takes the key with him and leaves a note that says, ‘You aren’t, Noct. It’s difficult. Thank you for trusting me with access to your home. I won’t abuse the privilege.’

Noct’s reply: _I WANT YOU HERE_

Ignis must get some gardening done that third day, because there’s dirt under his fingernails when the world grows dim, but he remembers none of it. The words ‘I want you here’ are all-consuming. Before he departs the silent manor – is Noctis asleep, he wonders, or just very still? – Ignis carefully scratches out his next message. ‘I can’t tell you how touched I am you’re writing to me this way, but I would at some point enjoy hearing your voice again.’

The reply the next morning is _PRESS PLAY THIRD FROM LEFT_.

Ignis finds a small recorder on the plant stand and presses the indicated button.

“Sorry again,” comes Noct’s voice. It’s quiet and ragged but not entirely devoid of cheer. “I promise you’re not missing much. This thing is probably better company than I am right now.” That was all.

Ignis thinks for a long time. Then he finds a button he believes will let him record. “One of the boons of friendship is that one doesn’t need to be good company to be welcome company. But you also have no need to explain yourself to me.”

The next day there is no note, and Noctis appears almost immediately after Ignis arrives, a wordless shadow. Ignis makes a few offhand comments as he works in the garden, about the plants and the weather, and is unsurprised and unbothered when Noctis doesn’t reply.

It’s past midmorning when Ignis sits back on his heels. He’s in the middle of planting a new patch of annuals in the prayer garden. Noctis paces behind him on the gravel path, and his usual metallic creak is accompanied by an increasingly noticeable limp in his gait.

“Would you like to plant one of these flowers yourself?” Ignis asks.

Noctis freezes. After an eternity there comes a slow creak, creak, creak. He stops right at Ignis’ side. At such a close distance, Ignis can hear the harsh wash of his breath and the minute sounds of the brace as he stands at rest.

“You may lean on me, Noct,” Ignis says. He puts his hands up, offering the support he can’t see to target more precisely.

Noctis takes them. He leans heavily on Ignis as he lowers himself to his knees with an involuntary groan. Noct relinquishes one hand but not the other. It’s intimate, kneeling together in the dirt, the solid heat of Noct’s body so close to his own. He smells faintly of expensive cologne, and faintly of dust.

“Have you ever planted anything before?” Ignis asks him. “You don’t have to speak. You can write, on my hand or my shoulder.”

Noctis turns Ignis’ hand over – Ignis can feel Noct’s fingers shaking – and he draws a quick X in Ignis’ palm.

“No? That’s all right, it’s fairly straightforward,” Ignis says, reaching for the next plant. “They’re grown in nursery pots, small plastic … well, I suppose you can see it, can’t you?” He passes the potted flower to Noctis before putting his own hands around Noct’s, to direct him. “Just a gentle squeeze, like this, to release it from the pot. Then …” He guides one of Noct’s hands up to the stem of the plant where it grows from the soil. “Grip here and ease it out. Yes, just so. Now, we’ll want to break up the root ball before we put it in the earth.” Ignis feels the knotted dirt to get his bearings, and then begins working the root system out of its constrained shape. “This will allow the plant to expand and flourish in its new environment.”

Noct’s fingers brush lightly against his wrist. A checkmark. He understands.

“Why don’t you finish, then?” Ignis tries to hand the plant back to Noct, and Noct tries to repel him, but Ignis persists. “You won’t hurt it, I promise. It’s not that delicate. You’re helping it grow.”

The plant is taken from Ignis’ hands, and Ignis prepares the earth to receive it and tries to smother a smile.

“Now all we’ll do is put it down in ground and bury the roots.”

Ignis feels Noct lean forward, and he finds Noct’s hands as they carefully settle the flower into its new home. He and Noct together scrape the dirt back around it. He lays his hands over Noct’s – they’re smaller than his own – and together they press the soil down. Their fingers slip between each other, almost by accident, and for a moment Ignis lingers in the touch. Then he pronounces, “There, it’s done.” Ignis selects a plant marker out of his tool tray and slips it into the ground. “So you’ll know which one you put here yourself.”

Noctis draws an unsteady breath, and he tries to pull away, put space between himself and Ignis.

“No, stay with me,” Ignis says, with his voice and with his hands, and Noctis does. Noct leans against Ignis’ side and clutches Ignis’ hand tightly to his chest. Ignis begins to run a palm down Noct’s back, but he immediately aborts the gesture. There’s a mess of destruction beneath Noct’s tailored jacket. But Noctis didn’t react like his touch was painful, so Ignis tries again, as gently as he can.

“I’m keeping you from your work,” Noct mutters hoarsely.

Ignis takes Noct by his waist and holds him. “You aren’t.”

-

In a day or two Noctis is speaking again, and after that everything between them is easy laughter and casual touch and Noct luring Ignis into his kitchen for long lunches where they talk for hours. Aranea bills Noctis for the time anyway, of course, but Noctis doesn’t complain.

At that point Ignis feels comfortable enough to do what he’s suspected would be necessary from the beginning. He asks Noctis if he can have a team of ten extra laborers for three days to clear everything that’s going from the garden and do a mass planting. At this point Ignis knows generally what he wants done – he just doesn’t have enough hands to do it all at once.

“They can walk around the outside of the manor,” Ignis says. “You can stay inside. You won’t ever have to speak to them.”

It’s on the nose to say such things, but they’re well past pretenses. Noctis gives a humorless laugh and says, “Yeah, that would work. Go ahead,” so he must agree.

Ignis doesn’t have the opportunity to speak to Noctis at all while the laborers are on the property. During the day he has his hands full directing the work, and when he pokes his head in the door of the manor each morning and evening, Noctis doesn’t present himself. He doesn’t even leave Ignis notes.

Even though it’s hopelessly foolish, Ignis misses him. But it’s worth it. Over the course of those three days, the condition of the garden improves by leaps and bounds.

When they have the garden to themselves again (what a strange thing to think, Ignis realizes, before putting it out of his mind), Noct greets Ignis at the front door. His voice is burred from three days without speaking and his manner is subdued, but all that melts away when they step out the back door.

“Ignis,” Noctis says, with such wonder that something in Ignis’ chest begins to ache.

“I take it it’s to your liking, then?” Ignis asks. “It’s barer than it will be, of course, and everything that’s been added will need time to settle in. But the rough outline should be visible.”

“I can’t believe it,” Noctis says. “It’s like a knot’s been untangled.”

“A scaffold is a great deal better than a mess. You never once looked out your window to check on the progress? You weren’t worried I might be ruining your garden?”

“Not at all. I wanted it to be a surprise.” Noct’s fingers dance against his wrist. “Is this all right?” He slips his hand into Ignis’.

Ignis gives a light squeeze in reply. “Very much so.”

Ignis allows Noctis to lead him along the gently winding paths of the garden. He revels in the touch of Noct’s fine-featured hand, and hopes his own dirt and callouses are somehow pleasant in exchange. Noctis keeps his hold, so they must be.

“It’s incredible, Ignis. And after just three days.” He huffs. “You wanted to do this from the start. You just knew I wouldn’t, I couldn’t ...”

“There’s no need for that,” Ignis says. “It’s done now, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Noctis chuckles. “I hope you didn’t seduce me just so I’d let you fix my garden.”

“Seduce you,” Ignis repeats. “That’s what I’ve been doing, then.”

A strange silence unspools. “You tell me.” Noct’s hand tightens.

Ignis moves closer to Noct so their shoulders touch, careful not to unbalance him. “I rather think it’s you who’s done most of the seduction. You have me quite at your mercy.”

Noctis doesn’t reply, but he leans into Ignis in return.

“I haven’t … it’s been a very long while,” Ignis says. “But I want to try for you.”

“Good,” Noctis murmurs. “Me, too.” His other hand appears at Ignis’ front, brushing carefully across his stomach. “It’s so beautiful here.”

They’re in the shady half of the garden, near the prayer garden, a segment of path surrounded by graceful trees and delicate climbing flowers. “I’m glad,” Ignis says.

Noct’s fingers tighten in Ignis’ shirt. “I can’t believe you can’t see it. You can’t even enjoy what you’ve made. Doesn’t it upset you?”

Ignis has been asked that question or a variation on it more times than he can reliably count. He has a few different answers he gives, all of which are true. He enjoys the satisfaction of a job well done and spending time in natural spaces, so he’s able to take pleasure in his work. He handles the plants carefully and intimately, so he simply enjoys them one at a time instead of all together like most people do. He’s accustomed to his blindness, and it’s pointless to dwell on what isn’t at the expense of what is.

He gives Noctis an answer he’s never spoken aloud. “Of course it does.” He opens his mouth to continue, to explain, to extrapolate, but no words come out. Noctis wraps him in both arms, weak but fierce.

“I’ll sit with you and list every leaf on the trees. I’ll trace every branch and stem in your palm. I’ll whisper every petal against your lips. I’ll …”

“No,” Ignis rasps, clinging to Noctis as hard as he dares. “No, that’s not what I want. Just tell me it’s beautiful to you. Tell me you’re pleased, Noctis, or tell me what to change so it will please you.”

“It’s beautiful,” Noctis says into his ear. “It’s amazing the way it is now, and I know you’ll keep making it better. I love it, Ignis.”

“Does it ease your pain? Does it bring you happiness?”

“Happiness. Peace. Love. Meaning you.”

Ignis chokes. “How can you simply say such things?”

Noctis presses his mouth to Ignis’ neck. His closely-trimmed beard tickles his skin when he speaks. “I’ve learned how stupid it is to put things off. I don’t want to risk it.”

Put like that, Ignis wholeheartedly agrees.

-

“It’s raining,” Noctis says a few days later, which of course Ignis knows, since he’s just come in from it. Noctis pulls Ignis’ hands to his sides, and he’s wearing a sweater made of one of the softest fabrics Ignis has ever touched. “I thought maybe you’d want to forget the garden for today,” Noctis says. “Just lie on the couch.”

The garden will keep. Ignis agrees.

He lies with his head on Noctis’ chest, listening to the slow lub of his heart. His hands soak in the dual sensations of the soft, ample sweater and Noct’s warm, hard body beneath it. Ignis can feel the lumps and shapes of the scars Noctis bears, but they are muffled by the cloth and unimportant against the sound of the rain drumming outside the window and the gentle lift of Noct’s breath.

“This is a fabulous garment,” Ignis says.

“I hoped you’d like it.” Noct holds Ignis with one arm and combs his hair with the other.

“I like you in it,” Ignis says, draping his arm around Noct’s side. “If my meaning wasn’t clear.”

The hand combing Ignis’ hair comes to a pause. “Is he dead?”

Ignis realizes Noct must be looking at his scars. He remembers, suddenly, as he sometimes does, that he might be horrific.

“Your nasty ex-boyfriend,” Noctis prompts, as though it’s remotely possible Ignis isn’t sure who he means. “The man who did this. Is he dead?”

“He’s in prison,” Ignis says.

“For how long?”

 A long time. Not long enough. “He’ll be eligible for parole in three years.”

Noctis “hmph”s in response, a low sound Ignis feels beneath his head. “I could kill him.”

Ignis isn’t quite sure he heard that correctly.

“Have him killed,” Noctis corrects, as casually as he’d made the offer. “Probably. I have contacts. I never really used them, but. I could have it done if you want.”

Ignis thinks about it, truly. Then he snorts. “Is that what you people do for gifts? ‘Darling, for our anniversary I’ve put out that hit you’ve always wanted.’”

“You people?” Noct asks, mock-insulted.

“Yes, you people. The inconceivably rich.”

Noctis chuckles. “Now if he falls down a manhole one day, you’re going to think it was me.”

“Perhaps. Though in seriousness … I don’t need you to kill him. What I want is …” He gathers up a handful of Noct’s heavenly sweater and turns his head to press his mouth to Noct’s chest. He has the words to express what he means, but he’s not sure he’s ready to say them. Not yet.

Noctis must hear them anyway, because he slides his fingers into Ignis’ hair and holds him closer. “All right.”

After only brief hesitation, Ignis chases a slightly different train of thought. “You would have a man killed? On my behalf?” You of all people, he means. You who nearly died that way yourself.

“I would,” Noctis says, quiet but unhesitant. “It’s horrible, so it’s exactly what he deserves.” He loosens his grasp on Ignis, an offer to withdraw. “Does that bother you?”

Actually, the sentiment curls warmly in Ignis’ chest. Perhaps Noct isn’t quite a harmless butterfly after all, but Ignis doesn’t find that knowledge frightening in the least. “No,” he says, and he means it, so Noctis draws him close once more.

They lie there until the dimness of the day fades. “You should cancel your car,” Noct says. “Stay the night. I don’t mean anything else,” he adds immediately. “Just that you can stay here if you want to. Stay out of the rain.”

Stay here at the manor, or stay here in Noct’s arms? It matters little. Ignis rises just enough to retrieve his phone from the coffee table and dictates a text. He cancels the ride for that evening and the next morning.

They lie there longer.

Eventually they wander into the kitchen. Ignis has never been here in the darkness, in the yellow electric warmth of nighttime instead of the pale brightness of the day. Noctis asks what he wants for dinner, and Ignis replies, “Something light.”

They eat, and afterwards they kiss, standing together against the counter beside the sink. Ignis tastes Noct’s rough, gentle bearded mouth for the first time. And the second, and the third.

Eventually they find stillness, with Noct’s head laid on Ignis’ shoulder. Ignis cups a hand at the base of his neck. His hair is soft. Softer even than the sweater, and warm, and him.

“Will you have me, then?” Ignis asks. “Is that how we’ll do it?”

Noct pulls back a little, and Ignis wonders if he’s looking at his face. “I know you haven’t, since … We don’t have to do that.”

“I know. I want you, Noctis. And if you want me as well, you may have me.”

Noct lays his head back in the crook of his neck. He quietly says, “Will you have me?”

Ignis gives a soft, involuntary sigh of surprise. He tightens his hands in Noct’s hair and around his waist, pulling him firmly against himself. “Of course, dear love. I think that sounds marvelous.”

-

When they undress – themselves and each other – Noct keeps the sweater on.

“It would be a shame to get it dirty,” Ignis decides to say. It feel like it costs more than a month of Ignis’ salary, he omits. “Perhaps you should change into something else. I can promise not to peek.”

Noctis puts his face in Ignis’ chest, almost bashful. “I thought maybe you’d like feeling it. Since I’m not letting you feel me.”

“You’re going to let me feel more than enough of you as it is,” Ignis replies, bemused. “You don’t have to make up for anything.”

“I can have it cleaned, or get a new one if it’s ruined. You like it, don’t you?”

“I do,” Ignis admits, which settles the matter.

Once they make it to Noct’s bed – which is expansive and expensive to the touch – Noctis removes the last pieces his brace. They land on the floor with the soft clink of metal, and Noctis groans in discomfort as he sinks away from Ignis and onto the sheets. Ignis gently catches Noct’s calf in his hand. “How is best for me to handle you?”

“Just … do whatever. I’ll let you know if it hurts too much.”

“No,” Ignis says, bringing his lips down to the inside of Noct’s knee. “That won’t do. Tell me how to be tender with you, Noct.”

After a long hesitation, Noct does.

-

Afterward, Ignis lies beside Noctis with a hand on his chest until both their heartbeats have calmed. “How are you feeling?” Ignis murmurs. “And how did you find it? Nice, I hope?”

“Yeah,” Noctis says. “Really nice. I liked, uh, having you there. I’d want to do it again.”

Ignis felt his lip curl upward. “Then I assure you, we shall.”

“So was it … was it good for you, too? I know with the sweater, and my leg …”

“Noctis.” Ignis slides closer to Noct, half-tangling their knees. He reaches his arm all the way across his chest to hold him better. “I enjoyed your body very much. I’m enjoying lying with you right now. There’s no need to be anxious.”

But Noct’s silence was anxious still. “I can take it off. The sweater, if, if you don’t like it. If it bothers you that you can’t touch me.”

“I want you to do whatever makes you feel comfortable. You’re _here_ either way, so truly, it doesn’t matter.” Ignis gives his torso a gentle squeeze to emphasize his point. “Just know that I want you, all of you, however you are. However much you want to give me.”

“I want to give you everything,” Noct whispers. “But … I’m ruined, Ignis. How can I give you that?”

Something hurt and hollow wakes in Ignis’ chest. He tucks his chin, a halfhearted effort to hide his face against Noct’s shoulder. “I’m ruined myself. I couldn’t conceal it if I wanted to. You still manage to accept the parts of me that are hideous.”

Noctis twists out from underneath him, propping himself up on his elbow. “Is that what you think? Ignis? That you’re hideous?”

Ignis feels emotion gather in his throat. He regrets turning the conversation toward himself. He doesn’t want to hear it spoken aloud. “I don’t know. I must be, though, mustn’t I? My face …”

“No,” Noctis interjects, and there are fingers combing his hair back, tilting his head up, caressing his face. “No. You’re not. They’re not ugly, and you’re beautiful, am I hurting you?”

“No,” Ignis whispers. He feels paralyzed, safe and helpless as Noctis brushes the pads of his fingers across Ignis’ ravaged eye.

“Your face is beautiful, Ignis, you’re stunning. I could look at you all day. I do, while you’re working, I can stare at you for hours without it bothering you, so I do. And the scars, they’re noticeable, they’re unusual, surprising, but they don’t ruin anything. I don’t like them, because they look like they _hurt_ , like you’ve been hurt, but they’re not hideous. How could they be? They’re part of you.” It’s perhaps the most words Ignis has ever heard Noctis say at once, and they’re accompanied by the softest touches imaginable, to his eye, his lip, the bridge of his nose. And when he’s finished, that soft sweater and Noct’s solid weight press down on his chest, and those feather-light fingers are replaced by lips, and Noct winds his hands through Ignis’ hair and kisses every ragged snarl and unblemished plane of Ignis’ face, whispering praises against his skin all the while. Ignis is certainly crying by the end of it, but it doesn’t occur to him to feel even slightly self-conscious.

-

Several days later, they’re sitting together on the stone bench in the prayer garden when Noctis shrugs off his suit jacket – he dresses formally, he’s told Ignis, because after ten years of doing so he doesn’t really know how to do anything else – and guides Ignis’ hands to the buttons of his shirt. They undo them together, slowly, and when the last one is open Noct’s hands fall away.

Ignis begins at the top, sliding his fingers from the base of Noct’s throat out along his collarbone to push the shirt away. He encounters the first slashing ridge before he even reaches it, and Ignis pauses, suddenly almost afraid of what’s to come.

“Never mind,” Noctis says. “We can …”

“Darling, it’s all right.”

Ignis slowly pulls the shirt off Noct’s shoulders, and Noctis doesn’t stop him, so Ignis lets it fall down to pool on the bench behind him. He wraps an arm behind Noctis (feels the gnarled mess of his back) and tucks him securely against his side. Then he takes his other hand and lays it over Noct’s heart.

It’s as bad as Ignis imagines. Noctis is a web of twisted, violent scars. Densest near his solar plexus, they mar his stomach and his chest, thick and furrowed. Ignis can’t imagine how Noctis lived through it. How he lives still. Ignis clutches Noct tighter.

“Oh, my love,” is all he says. It comes out ragged and soft. He knows Noctis can see his face, and he wishes he had it under better control. He hopes it’s not showing the wrong things.

“When I passed out, I knew it was the end,” Noctis says. “I was so shocked. So scared. They wanted me to die like that. Terrified and in a million pieces, bleeding all over a marble floor.”

Ignis felt like that, twelve years ago. He’d known his life and breath were burning away just as surely as his flesh. Noctis had been far closer to death than he ever was.

“I’m so glad you didn’t,” Ignis says into Noct’s hair. “I’m so glad you’re beside me now, with me, in my arms. I’m grateful to every scar, every wound that healed to get you here.”

“Six, Ignis,” Noct swears, trembling against him, so Ignis pulls his shirt back over his shoulders, and drapes his jacket over that, and rubs his arms and back and neck until he’s soothed and calm, warm enough that the chill thought of death is powerless.

“Do you mind if I make a call?” Noctis asks. He shifts, and Ignis hears the snick of a smartphone.

“Of course not,” Ignis says, feeling a little as though he’s stepped sideways into an alternate universe. A few taps, and then Ignis hears a ringing sound – Noctis has put the phone on speaker instead of to his ear.

Someone answers on the second ring. There’s a heavy sigh on the other end. “Gladiolus Amicitia.”

“Gladio,” Noct says. “Something the matter?”

A pause. “Nothing at all. I just figured it was the paramedics calling your ICE contact.”

Noctis sags a little against Ignis’ shoulder. “Nah, you’re not rid of me yet,” he replies quietly. “I was actually calling to see if I could get back on your schedule.”

“You were my schedule,” Gladio answers gruffly.

“That’s what I mean.”

“What happened to ‘I’m just going to lock myself inside my house and wait to fall apart’?”

Ignis’ tightens his hand around Noct’s waist. Noct’s hand slips onto Ignis’ knee. “There’s been a change of plans.”

“That’s it?”

“I, uh. Was acting a little extreme,” Noctis says. “I’ve been in a bad place.” The silence stretches. “I’m sorry.”

Gladio lets out a shuddering exhale. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do without you,” he says in a voice somewhat thick with emotion. “I’ll be there tomorrow if I can get a flight.”

“Great,” Noctis says. “It’ll be good to see you. And listen, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

**Author's Note:**

> Gladio is Noct’s lifelong personal trainer and physical therapist and kind of informal bodyguard. (Noct calls a brain therapist, too, don’t worry.)
> 
> Prompto is the courier for the service Noct has contracted to deliver slates-and-styluses and voice recorders and lube and stuff to his house on short notice at literally any hour of the day or night. At the opening of this fic, Prompto’s standing instructions are to place the item on the front porch, ring the doorbell, and leave (so Noctis never has to interact with him). At some point Ignis actually answers the door and meets him, and he introduces him to Noct and then they all become pals. I couldn’t get him into the actual fic in a space-efficient fashion.  
> -  
> I want to note that Ignis is a fictional character and is good-looking both before and after his blinding in the game, so I have him worrying he’s “horrific” and Noct eventually telling him he finds him beautiful as a plot element in this story. But this is a case of something that makes sense for two specific characters and isn’t meant to imply anything universal about people in this kind of situation. I hope it’s obvious that even if a person wasn’t still essentially pretty after a disfigurement (or never was to begin with), they would be just as worthy of love and deserve everything in the world, etc.
> 
> Probably way too deep a disclaimer for a little fanfic, but I thought about a lot of things while I was writing this and that’s one of them.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos are love, and you can always find me on tumblr [@carolyncaves](https://carolyncaves.tumblr.com/).


End file.
